


It could be easy

by WHUMPBBY



Series: Smutty Shorts [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Don’t copy to another site, Elder God, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Other, Tentacle Sex, diet dub-con for a moment there, got more emotional than intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 17:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17902664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WHUMPBBY/pseuds/WHUMPBBY
Summary: His boy is alive.The thought takes over his mind and Bruce almost stops breathing –not that it will harm him in the long run, but the pretence of humanity is something he has buried down in his very bones, he can’t allow himself to let go of it, because one stumble is enough to break stride and he can’t allow that to happen –especially now, that he knows… that his boy is alive.





	It could be easy

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt formed an idea of Bruce being a sort of an Elder God being that strives to be human, taking care of his city - and one day discovering that his little bird came back to him. And that the only way to bring him back home is to show him how much he's loved.
> 
> Betaed/edited by the perfect in every inch scandalsavage!! :O

His boy is alive.

The thought takes over his mind and Bruce almost stops breathing –not that it will harm him in the long run, but the pretense of humanity is something he has buried down in his very bones, he can’t allow himself to let go of it, because one stumble is enough to break stride and he can’t allow that to happen –especially now, that he knows… that his boy is alive.

Jason is…

There's doubt swirling between hope. Dark suspicions of lies and disguises, and enemies more than willing to play on that particular raw nerve just to make him suffer. It would be such a perfect game, he knows, such a show –to have him believe and then tear that hope out of his hands.

But the genetic analysis doesn’t lie –the hair and blood provided by the man ( _boy_ , there was a _boy_ under that mask, just a few years older than…his...) all point at one conclusion. And Bruce knows that the universe is a strange place, that things happening in it are not always what they seem, but his faith in human ingenuity is yet to be proven wrong. The simple sciences of the Earth are trustworthy enough to make his hands shake as he folds them underneath his chin and forces his body to breathe as he stares at the screen, the results weaving into the shape of hope, the cave silent and dark around him.

Dick is upstairs. He can hear, if he focuses enough, two pairs of feet moving around the manor: Alfred doing his last rounds and Dick heading towards his room to rest, one of his legs dragging a bit. Bruce considers stretching his awareness enough to enter his oldest’s bedroom, to make sure he's unharmed, but decides not to. Dick is fiercely independent, Bruce strives to respect it nowadays, no matter how much he’d love to just ensure the boy’s safety.

Tim is already asleep, sedated and wrapped in bandages, his injuries healing nicely. Not fast enough for Bruce’s tastes, but human bodies have limits to how much you can manipulate them. In any case, scarring should be minimal.

That thought –the sight of his Robin, his partner, hurt and bruised made him seethe with anger and need for retaliation for days, but now these emotions crash against the wall of the new discovery and slide down in a tangle of confusion and directionless rage. Who to blame? Because the one that hurt his Robin was... is Jason. His son.

 _Jason is back_ , returned to him by some unknown power, for an inexplicable reason –as if he never went away. Aged, grown, bigger and brawnier than the little scamp that used to worry he’d never get taller, that Dick would forever be lording that over him, as if that mattered in any way. Now look at him, almost as tall as Bruce himself in his human guise. Strong and skilled…

...enough to bring a new brand of terror to Gotham.

Ruthless enough to terrify the most hardened criminals into co-operation within days.

Just like Bruce had taught him.

No, not like that. There was no mention of beheadings anywhere in his teachings. Someone else did this, taught Jason how to make explosives, how to operate firearms with astonishing precision, someone twisted his mind into believing that death won't beget more death on the streets of their city… Someone had taken his boy, trained and armed him, and turned him against his family.

And Bruce is going to find out who.

 

* * *

 

Conversation with Ra’s al Ghul is a tense affair –always uncomfortable, these little meetings of theirs. Bruce had mastered many skills in his life, except the skill of gracefully dealing with other inhumans. Clark and his family are easy –for all of their alien heritage, they’re sometimes more human than those they deem to protect.

Ra’s al Ghul is the opposite of that. For all his human roots he’s coldly ‘other’ in a way that makes Bruce’s teeth hurt and his body ache to unfurl, to stretch out and present his might. With one look, the Head of Ghul challenges all of his instincts and the feeling of losing control is one Bruce has particular difficulty dealing with. It makes him feel even more anxious and only serves to escalate the situation.

It’s no secret that two Others of their caliber can’t co-exist peacefully in one territory, sooner or later the hunger will overrule their attempts at civility, rendering peace impossible. They can’t be allies for that reason alone, but since they can’t afford the destruction of an open conflict, respectful distance is all that’s left. Bruce’s visit to Nanda Parbat is an indicator of how important the matter is on itself.

Ra’s is the only being he knows with powers strong enough to combat death.

As it turns out, he also has something to get off of his chest.

Bruce leaves the island in a haze of anger and regret. He doesn’t even bother with the helicopter, instead using shadows to carry him back to Gotham, to the city underneath, where his heart beats in an uneven rhythm of growing dread. He’d like to blame Ra’s for all that –and a part of him does, a part of him keeps its teeth bared and hungry for blood –but self-reflection is his curse, and so guilt takes deeper root.

How can he blame anyone else for this tragic mess, but himself? He is the one who had lost his son, who had allowed him to die, who wasn’t quick enough to save the boy or brave enough to bring him back, even though he knew of a way to do it. Now, what he had been afraid of back then happened –Jason is back, but changed, bearing the weight of Bruce’s helplessness and cowardice. Damned to die in pain and awake to terror, is it strange that the chaos followed him back to Gotham?

There’s only one thing left to do. He has to save his boy from madness, has to bring him back home.

 

* * *

 

It’s not easy, because Gotham loves Jason Todd. He’s one of her children, born and bred, not much unlike Bruce himself. Even if his ties to the city aren’t as complex as Bruce’s, they’re there and she’s not willing to give him up easily. Bruce's own doubts work against him, clouding his vision and hearing, hiding his son from him because he wants to stay hidden.

He wonders if Jason knows the truth, if he’s aware of what Bruce is and uses it against him in some way. Would Ra’s reveal it to the boy or is he too proud to meddle anymore in their matters?

The fact stands –Bruce doesn't get the chance to corner Jason until Jason decides he wants to be cornered. It happens on his terms and by the time Batman can look his boy (hisboyhisboyalivehisboy) in the eyes, the turmoil inside of his heart starts to bleed out into the reality around him. The rain hasn’t stopped for days now, Gotham is drenched and gloomy, and the river is one step from spilling out onto the streets. The crime is up, people anxious and trigger-happy, and he can’t do anything about it, but try to patch up the holes in the sieve.

The confrontation doesn’t go as he planned it. But then again, was there ever a time when anything went according to plan with Jason involved? He didn't even plan on bringing the child home that first time…

Now he regrets it. Not the bringing him home part, but maybe a bit of that, too. If he didn’t, then maybe the boy would have been spared. If he was less selfish and thoughtless, and left him with someone else, some other good family that would give him love and attention, and warmth he was so obviously starved for, then maybe _–maybe_ –Jason would have received all the happiness he deserved. If something in Bruce’s chest hadn’t flared with possessive heat at the sight of the little malnourished tyke with iron in his hands and fire in his eyes, maybe now he wouldn't be looking at the young man bleeding pain and sense of betrayal, both so profound and acute it is hard to breathe around them.

Bruce wishes, oh how he wishes, to do what his boy expects of him. If only it wasn’t a demand to break one of the rules that keep his human guise intact, if only it wasn’t a demand to deny his humanity. If it wasn’t Joker.

But Joker is also a part of Gotham, her blood and her madness, and Bruce can’t go around devouring pieces of himself like that. It’s a cruel conundrum, their twisted bond, he’d made his bed and he has to lay in it now –and those hurt alongside it will forever weight on his consciousness. Not one of them more than this boy.

Doesn't Jason know that if he could, Bruce would have already killed the goddamn lunatic? That he’d let the clown walk if there was a different option available? Doesn’t he know?

His turmoil reaches the boiling point when Jason’s finger tightens on the trigger, less than a blink away from pulling it back, and he does the only thing that comes to mind to stop it. He can almost feel the blade slicing flesh, the blood that spills out of the open gash is like a wound he tore in his own heart, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the little sound of distress trapped in Jason’s throat and the look of betrayal in his eyes as he drops the gun to grip the wound closed… It’s a play for time, and Bruce falls back on the calculations running in the back of his mind, on the cold logic that takes the front seat when he’s emotionally compromised.They tell him it was a good gamble, there’s still time; with Jason disarmed, he can subdue him and close the wound, take him away and help him heal.

In his rush, he forgets about the Joker.

The building goes down like a house of cards. The floor caves in underneath his feet and fire bellows from the cracks. And through the haze of dust and smoke, he sees the maniac laughing and Jason on his knees, hand pressed to his neck, eyes wide in terror of a memory from a different time, the past repeating again… his heart lurches, the real one, buried underneath the oldest parts of the city, pain spearing through it, anger scalding the wound after.

He won't allow it. Not this time. He won't allow the madman to take his boy from him again!

Time slows when his eyes open, the ones he usually keeps closed to keep reality as it is. Now he doesn't care –there’s a small part of him that keeps the world from falling apart around them, it has to be enough –because for all his logic and reason, he’s a reckless hypocrite when it comes to love. He stretches himself across the distance separating them, unfurls all his layers over the flaming inferno underneath, and reaches Jason just in time to cover his eyes and fold him into the protective embrace that closes a moment before the explosion swallows them.

He discards the clown, he will survive. He always does.

Jason takes a breath of the heated air and Bruce holds him tighter, feeling hot blood pulsing against him from the wound in the boy’s neck. He focuses on that first –he was never good at healing, not even close in skill to Alfred (but then gain, there’s only one Alfred in existence) –but he can spare a hand to cover the wound and keep applying steady pressure to it until a chance to stitch it shut arrives. The plan is to take Jason home, back to the manor, where it’s safe. He can transport them both out of the rubble of a falling building, it’s not a problem…

Until Jason starts to fight him. The boy fights to escape his embrace, to remove the hand that covers his eyes, the one that holds his neck together, the arms that hold him close… his voice raises in anger and panic, and that’s where Bruce’s patience ends.

 _“You’re safe.”_ He wants to tell him, but words are difficult in his current state. _“I have you, you’re safe. This time I will protect you. I love you.”_ He can only push the meanings at the mind struggling in his hold, keeping himself back, trying to be gentle, afraid of overwhelming the frail human senses with his presence and weight.

The only thing it brings is even more struggling. Fear of the unknown trumps all and Jason has been afraid for so long now, his mind is full of it, a tangle of snakes left over by the Pit and even before…

He tears down the shaky walls raising to intercept him with ease, because he _needs to see_. Needs to know what’s behind them, what horrors live inside of Jason’s head that he can disperse, what doubts he can lay to rest. He’d never done it, never dared to enter another’s mind so completely and brazenly, but he’s at the end of his rope and his boy is suffering, and the need to fix it trumps all reason. And it hurts him, too, what he sees in there. Jason’s death was traumatic enough from the outside, to be so close to it is torture –to feel the pain of his broken bones, his hope that Bruce will make it in time. To feel that hope dying in the fire just to be reborn as hatred is almost blinding.

Jason screams into his shoulder, so Bruce holds him closer, runs a hand through his sweaty hair and another one down his back in a move made to comfort as he pulls up memory after memory out of his head.

He sees Tim –just a grainy photograph in the newspaper, pinned to the stained wall in some rundown flat, of Batman and Robin flying over Gotham’s streets, the dynamic duo together once more. The chasm that opens in Jason’s chest at the sight feels like all of his ribs were broken at once, like he was just skinned alive.

 _It’s not like that_ –he wants to tell him, to scream until he understands. _It’s not like that! How could you think that I would ever replace you? How could you think that. How… you were loved, Jay, youwerelovedlovedloved..._

Disagreement. More screaming.

_What is this? What’s happening...! Let me go, Bruce, I hate you, let me goletmegoIhateyouletmego…!_

No. He won't let go. Not ever again.

Skin on skin contact helps, it grounds him, so Bruce pushes for more. Leather and kevlar are easy to discard, the underarmour a bit more tricky to dismantle, but not a challenge ( _even though it warms him to know that the boy was making an effort to protect himself from further harm, if only Dick would..._ ) and soon enough he can slip his fingers underneath. The skin is hot there, warm with blood and energy, and life - and he still can barely believe that his boy is alive and back with him. Even as he counts the vertebraes in his spine, tenderly makes sure that each rib is unbroken, that underneath the tangled mane of black hair there’s no cracks and no swelling… he can scarcely believe it.

He’s here, alive, _breathing_ , fighting him as he always did.

 _My boy...._ angry at him, yes, but that can be dealt with, because so much of it is unfounded ( _I didn't replace you, I never could, I miss you, Jay_ ) and powered by misconceptions. Bruce can show him.

He’d never shown any of them, not like that. Dick knows what he is, but Bruce never allowed him to truly _see_ because his flighty bird is already barely tethered to the Earth. He keeps Jason’s eyes covered throughout the process, as he winds his arms and hands, and these other appendages he can barely name, around him, closer, tighter, searching for more contact, wanting to show his boy all the love he has for him, all the pain his death had caused…

Gotham was dark for a long time after it happened. It never recovered properly from the black days of despair and madness, if not for another brave child the light might have never returned…

Jason gasps into the darkness surrounding him, his cheeks wet with tears that gentle fingers and even gentler lips wipe away. There’s white in his hair now, just a stripe, thankfully, a small enough toll for the ferryman. Bruce presses his lips to where it starts in a kiss meant to comfort. Then to the tight little line between Jason’s eyebrows. Then to his upper lip and the bottom one, separately.

_You’re loved. So much. So much, Jay._

Another gasp that may be his name... or may be a sound of distress Bruce sets out to soothe. This is his natural state, but he’s not really used to it, when he’s like that it’s hard to account for all of his parts, to have them behave in the precise manner he works his human guise in – but one thing he can assure is the intent behind each movement. And this time his intent rings clear: love, comfort, gentleness.

His boy needs it. There’s a black hole inside of his head where the idea that he’s not worth much lives, fear that he’s replaceable and unloved that couldn't be further away from the truth. Fed by the pain and madness of Lazarus, it grows and sprawls and infects every thought that touches it. It has to go. It _needs_ to go.

Bruce grasps it between his jaws and _pulls_ \- Jason thrashes and whines against him in reaction to the roughness, but there’s touch there to calm him –smooth and sure strokes up and down his back, across the expanse of skin marred with scars… The ones left after the explosion are gone, Lazarus wiped them out of existence, so the ones Bruce feels under his fingertips are new…

Oh, Jay.

He traces over them, counting, needing to know. A stab-wound on the lower back, stitched up haphazardly, barely missing the kidney. A trail left by a rough landing on a gravel that tore through the clothing and skin. An ugly band around the upper thigh left by a length of barbed wire, untreated too long until infection set in. He pays attention to that one in particular, because this one was bad –one of his boy’s lowest moments, alone in some foreign country, at the mercy of a murderer tasked with teaching him how to use a rifle.

Jason tenses when the inquisitive fingers slip towards the inside of his thigh, writhes a bit, this time his gasp is softer, somehow less scared, but more confused. “Bru...ce?”

Gentle, careful, he inspects the scar, the memory of it, the new skin that grew over the gruesome mess, and it’s not wholly an accident when his attention moves to the strong muscle running under it… the flesh is strong, thick and shapely, he finds that heartening, that Jay grew up so well, hopes the boy is satisfied… knows that the Jay from the past would be ecstatic to cross six feet and close on two hundred pounds of pure muscle mass.

“Bruce… what...!” The whispering turns urgent as his hands wander, measuring, familiarizing himself with the changes, appreciating the perfect strong human form. In his desperate, guilt-ridden dreams he’d wished for his boy to grow up strong, to grow up beautiful; it’s such a relief to know that they came true. “Wait…”

He becomes aware of the change all at once –the hardening length between those strong, quivering thighs, points of pebbled nipples rubbing against the human parts of Bruce’s chest, narrow lips plump from teeth gnawing on them and the aching emptiness inside. For a second or two it’s confusing, but understanding comes fast. All the love he’s pouring into their connection is taking effect, Jason’s brain, struggling to deal with the onslaught, found a way to interpret these inhuman emotions.

It’s an unexpected way, but if that’s what his boy needs, that’s exactly what Bruce is going to give him.

 _“Whatever you need, Jay,”_ his voice rumbles across the expanse of shadows bleeding into his form. _“Everything.”_

“Bru...ce…!”

He knows, he can see it, regardless of the protests Jason tries to raise, the boy _yearns_ for love and attention, but doesn’t believe he’ll ever get it. Doesn’t trust Bruce to provide it. It hurts to know the depths of his failure, that even now his affection is doubted… he deserves it, all in all, doesn't he? He did fail.

Not anymore.

“Bruce!”

 _“Shh…”_ A choir of susurrous whispers echoes around as he calmly, lovingly, spreads his fingers wide on the expanse of that pale, scarred skin, tracing it in tender patterns that don't exist on the human plane. _“Everything, Jay.”_

Jason is just a human, even though his blood tastes of Lazarus, even though his mind is full of green fog, he’s still staunchly, gloriously human, and his brain has problems with placing all the forms of touch assaulting his senses. That’s to be expected, after all, not all sensations Bruce evokes are physical, but he tries to reign himself in to the best of his ability, even though the feeling of the shivering mind in his grasp fills him with indescribable joy and tenderness. Everything he does is loving –every fingertip tracing gentle circles around the taut nipples and the soft skin underneath his boy’s ears, over the plumpness of his lips and the slickness of his tongue. Firmer caress down the dip in his lower back, massaging tense muscles until they melt and relax, and Bruce can explore the heat between his legs, hardness and softness, and the tense twitching rim barring him entrance...

“B…!”

 _“Shh…”_ Soft kiss pressed to the white curl of hair, more against the twitching eyelids, shivering lips, down the heaving chest and stomach –all at once, like water flowing down the ravine, a waterfall of moist whispering softness. _“Jay…”_

Jason squirms and Bruce lets him, but doesn’t stop, not even for a moment, he has so much to show him, so much to tell him, but knows that the boy won't listen, not now, there’s still too much hurt clouding his thoughts, Bruce has to remove it, wash it off. Touch will do the trick when words can’t, unceasing and inescapable, persisting until the boy’s gasps fill out the air and his body softens, until his legs and his mind fall open, defenceless, receptive. Until the tiny twitching barrier surrenders to him with a shy wink and he can finally breach it, connect them fully, sliding into that tight hotness at the same time the he slips into the slick cavern waiting behind the swollen lips.

There’s no more words, they’re not needed, the connection opens a route of communication so complete words would just stand in the way. He reads awe in the cluttered mind that parts to admit him entrance, awe that slowly displaces fear of the unknown. Because Bruce is still Bruce, and above everything else this broken vessel has experienced, the shard of trust in him could not be smothered.

It fills him with wonder, that faith still smoldering weakly on the bottom of the well of pain. It’s wondrous and stupefying, overwhelming him with the feeling of gratefulness he pours back into their connection, wanting his boy to understand what it means to him.

Jason’s mind struggles with receiving the message, distracted with the physical appreciation of his form, tender touches in all the sensitive places, making him shiver, stoking the fire in his veins. He moans around the appendage stretching his mouth open, laying heavy on his tongue, too mobile for a cock, but too thick for a tongue, undulating gently against his palate –just as he likes. Reaching exactly as far as he can take it, not a millimeter more, stroking his tongue almost as if the exchange was in reverse, as if he wasn’t meant to please its unseen owner, as if it was pleasing him by performing to his expectations. Just like the tight grip on his nipples, soft like lips, but with no teeth, tight like fingers, but slick, slippery glide across the nubs making him shiver. He hasn’t stopped shaking, first from anger, then from fear and now pleasure, confusing and overwhelming as it is to be stroked from his toes up to the top of his head, where strong fingers weave into his hair to scratch lightly at is scalp, nudge the soft skin behind his ears until he arches his neck to be kissed and nipped… he’s going crazy… he knows he is, because this whole thing is impossible, it has to be some… some sort of a fever dream… a hallucination brought on by blood loss or something… his neck got cut, yeah, that had to be it, he’s dying or delirious, or something…

His breath catches on a sob.

God, the first time was nothing like it. The first time was painful and horrific, and when he woke up in the Pit it was even worse, with every inch of his skin scalded as if by acid, with his mind in tatters, a burned out forest that greeneyed demons stalked through… If he’d known that death can be like this…

 _No._ It feels like something reaching into his head, his brain naked, exposed to thoughts pushed into it like pins, making him shake and burn, as if someone caressed his nerve endings. _Not death, Jay. My Jay, my boy, no more of that._

He wants to answer, but can’t because that’s when the movement between his legs picks up, the rhythm so steady it’s almost inhuman, the warm girth stretching him deliciously, exactly as much as he can take, on the verge of _too much_ , but not crossing the line. In and out, like a pendulum, strong and sure, just like the hands clamped on his hips (and he stopped thinking about the number of the hands on him a while ago) palms hot on his skin, calloused fingers tight, thumbs caressing the dips of his pelvis when he tenses on every upstroke. His eyes are closed, covered, but he feels tears slipping down his cheeks, because it hurts… how gentle this all is. It hurts inside of his chest, how every touch is a caress, how each kiss and press and pull seeks only to bring him pleasure and succeeds… how long it’s been since the last time he was touched so gently, shown so much consideration and lo…

“A-ah!” The length filling him twists suddenly, pushes against his walls and his prostate, forcing a breathless whimper out of him, the flesh in his mouth retreating briefly to allow the release, before driving back eagerly. “Hmm!”

The length pushes onwards, deeper than before, twisting and coiling inside of him, pressing in all the places Jason wasn’t even vaguely aware can feel good. Good enough to make him mewl, short-circuiting his thoughts.

_“Everything, Jay.”_

His name, repeated constantly, like an echo that never weakens, spoken with so much love, a constant outpouring of affection and regret, and joy that he’s back, he’s alive, so strong, so beautiful… he’s crying and can’t help it, it’s too much even before another hand wraps around his cock and starts to pull it slowly, gently, before a slick finger starts rubbing at his taint to the rhythm of the in-and-out that has his thighs shaking in the unyielding hold…

He’s loved. _So much._ In _every_ way. And it’s unfathomable to him, it’s an impossible dream coming true. If his mouth was free, he'd be wailing. If his body was free to go, he’d be trying to run.

But he can’t do either. Can’t do anything, but accept it all.

_“Jay… Jay… Jay…”_

Can’t do anything, but surrender with a soft moan, arching up as he comes and the caresses don’t end, driving him higher and higher, until all he can see is white light underneath his eyelids and all he can feel is pleasure, and he blindly reaches out until hands grasp his, steadying him as he crashes back down into a body that shakes from overstimulation. He’s sobbing now, openly, unashamed, too tired to stop it, too overwhelmed to even try to hide from the awareness that pushes into his mind and soothes the jagged edges of the myriad of hurts…

“Jay…”

Bruce wraps himself around the trembling boy, his form easily pulling out of the darkness until there’s not a sliver of space separating them, until Jason’s breaths become his. He can feel the shivers running up and down his body, can feel the heat it gives off both outside and in, can’t stop caressing it and nuzzling the sweaty locks at the pulsing temple. It’s so tempting to just leave him like that, to have his boy forever wrapped inside of him, in the safest place Bruce can think of, where he can love him and make sure Jay knows it every _moment of the rest of his life_.

It would be so easy to keep him from the world.

So easy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
